THERE WAS ONCE a kindly woman at Ghent in Belgium,
the mother of three children, who had heard of the distress
suffered by D.P.s and knew that a Dominican at Huy was
working for these outcasts.She wrote to him: 'Give me the
name and address of a mother with several children and I
will try to befriend them.'

The Aid for Displaced Persons organization gave her a
name and address, that of Madame Z. at Trieste, a girl‐
mother with three children.The kind woman of Ghent became their 'godmother' and exchanged many letters with
her protégés, sending them parcels, money, and much loving-kindness.

One of the three children of the D.P. at Trieste was a little
boy of ten who sent his godmother in Ghent, happy little
letters.All seemed going well until, one day, a letter arrived
which thoroughly upset her:

Dear Godmother,

I am just writing a few words to let you know that I am in
very bad health, and—sad, sad news—my studies, my schooling
and my hopes of becoming a priest must all come to an end.
There seems no doubt that I am not much longer for this
world ... I want to live, but the camp has robbed me of the
chance ...

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